His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword;
And on his head a crown of drooping corn
Mock'd that of Ceres in high holiday.
His robes were simple, but were full of
grace,

And (out of love and truth I speak him thus)

I never did behold a man less proud,
More dignified or grateful to admire.
His honors nothing teas'd him from him-
self;

And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man
Who did intend to honor them as much
As they could honor him.

FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE"

JOHN OF LAUNOY

I NEVER look'd that he should live so long.
He was a man of that unsleeping spirit,
He seem'd to live by miracle: his food
Was glory, which was poison to his mind
And peril to his body. He was one
Of many thousand such that die betimes,
Whose story is a fragment, known to few.
Then comes the man who has the luck to live,
And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances,
And deem there 's ne'er a one in dangerous
times

Who wins the race of glory, but than him
A thousand men more gloriously endow'd
Have fallen upon the course; a thousand

Was meritoriously administer'd,

Whilst all its instruments from first to last, The tools of state for service high or low, Were chosen for their aptness to those ends Which virtue meditates. To shake the ground

Deep-founded whereupon this structure stood,

Was verily a crime; a treason it was, Conspiracies to hatch against this state And its free innocence. But now, I ask, Where is there on God's earth that polity Which it is not, by consequence converse, A treason against nature to uphold? Whom may we now call free? whom great? whom wise?

Whom innocent? the free are only they Whom power makes free to execute all ills Their hearts imagine; they alone are great Whose passions nurse them from their craáles up

In luxury and lewdness, whom to see
Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn
Their station's eminence; the wise, they

And gently judged for evil and for good.
But whilst he mix'd not for his own behoof
In public strife, his spirit glow'd with zeal,
Not shorn of action, for the public weal,
For truth and justice as its warp and woof,
For freedom as its signature and seal.
His life, thus sacred from the world, dis-
charged

From vain ambition and inordinate care,
In virtue exercis'd, by reverence rare
Lifted, and by humility enlarged,
Became a temple and a place of prayer.
In latter years he walk'd not singly there ;

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,

And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestin'd to rot on Temple Bar;

And he he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war!

Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain,

First give another stab to make

secure ;

your search Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kiss'd your lily hands to your Lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl about the prey.

Where be your tongues, that late mock'd at heaven and hell and fate?

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?

Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths?

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown,

With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope!

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's stalls;

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope.

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,

all in a row:

of England's sword;

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre !

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny

vines, O pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ;

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war!

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;

And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,

To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest;

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smil'd on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout: God save our lord the king!

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,

For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."